


empires fall

by ladanse



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Angst, Grindelwald/Dumbledore AU, Harry Potter - Freeform, Harry Potter AU, M/M, Multipart, Sad Ending, erik as grindelwald, ft. charles as dumbledore, raven as ariana, the pain train no. 3, yup that's right. enjoy crying my friends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-11-18
Packaged: 2018-08-22 12:08:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8285329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladanse/pseuds/ladanse
Summary: Charles was raised to be seen and not heard. His gift for Legilimency marks him apart; most young wizards manifest in exploding fruit and floating silverware and the like, but Charles wakes up on his eighth birthday and can hear the sleeping thoughts of the entire household.His gift informs him, at eight years old, that his mother cares more for her crystal liquor cabinet than she does for him.But on a sunny June day the summer after Charles' seventh year, he meets a sour-faced, sharp-boned boy lounging on Ms. MacTaggert's couch."Erik Lehnsherr," he says, holding out a hand to shake. "I was at Durmstrang."Charles grips his hand to shake. "Charles Xavier. It's nice to meet you.""Yes," says Erik, smile flicking subtly from sharp to hungry. "I think it will be." aka the grindeldore cherik au. be forewarned for pain and angst and sorrow, because love can't always be enough.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> many thanks to enabler no. 1, who pushed me into watching xmen and cries with me about this au.
> 
> thanks also to enabler no. 2, who brought harry potter to my newly birthed fic-writing mind. you've created a monster, babe.

 

The mansion in Godric's Hollow had long since been claimed by time; bedrock crumbled, once-immaculate lawn bristling with ivy, iron door buried under nearly a century of rust. Charles ignores the wreck. Those wounds are old, now, replaced by newer scars.

 

He is not here for his old family's home, nor even for the 16-year-old smoldering wreck that was Jean and Scott's before the Dark Lord took them. The wand in his hand - not _his_ wand, it could never be _-_  seems to itch and warm as he walks farther through the wizarding hamlet, reaching out with impeccable Legilimency and smoothing the minds of any who chance to see this very old man gliding down the road as though he is already a ghost.

 

He stops in front of MacTaggert - Moira's - house. The woman is older than he is by now; most call her batty without realizing it is the leftovers of a genius mind and a razor wit. The boy will come here, someday, he knows, and he wants to give him an anchor to hold that isn't his parents' white gravestone.

 

She remembers him, of course. They sit in silence over tea and biscuits and listen to the rafters creak. "When he comes here," says Charles, eventually, "tell him everything."

 

"All of it?" she asks. "Even about - "

 

"Yes," he says, before she can say his name. "Everything."

 

\-------------------

 

Nurmengard is as cold as he remembers it; the stone walls here are nothing like the moldering crumble of limestone in Godric's Hollow.

 

Charles, as always, carries nothing but a battered wizarding chess set.

 

"Hello, Erik," he says, quietly. The gaunt face, withered by age and rough stone and weak sunlight, familiar to him as the creases on his palms, does something that is not quite a smile.

 

Charles sits down, opens the chess set.

 

"Him, again?" complains the black rook. "Don't you ever play with anyone else?"

 

"Shut up," says Erik's creaky voice. "Or I'll break your head off."

 

"Threats tend to seem empty if they've been made for nearly seventy years, Erik," says Charles, straddling the balance between pain and fondness.

 

"Why are you here, Charles?" asks Erik, instead of replying. He moves his pawn forward. _d4_.

 

"There is someone looking for the Elder Wand," says Charles, countering with his black pawn. "I thought you should have fair warning."

 

"The Hallows?" says Erik, musing. "Someone has found what we did, then. I wish them the very best." His voice is sardonic.

 

"Do you? The man who is set up to become the next - well." Charles cuts himself off. They both know what he meant.

 

Erik's face doesn't change; pain borne too long cannot wash out from the lines around one's eyes. "Thank you for the courtesy, old friend," he says, several moves later. Then, abruptly - "How is it treating you? Educating the minds of our successors?"

 

Charles sighs, weary. "They are so _young_ , Erik," he says, thinking of Bobby and Marie and John.

 

"So were we, once," Erik replies, and takes Charles' knight.

 

\-------------------

 

Charles is raised to be seen and not heard. His gift for Legilimency marks him apart; most young wizards manifest in exploding fruit and floating silverware and the like, but Charles wakes up on his eighth birthday and can hear the sleepy thoughts of the entire household.

 

Sharon Xavier is pleased. She parades her son through parties and balls like a showdog, and hires an Occlumency tutor for the evenings. By the time he is eleven, receiving his letter to Hogwarts, Charles knows he is special. He knows that regular Occlumency shields don't work on him. He knows that his mother is remarrying to a man named Kurt Marko, that he has a son Charles' age. He knows that Marko is only marrying into the Xavier line for their wealth, and he knows that his mother cares more for her crystal liquor cabinet than she does for him.

 

When he is twelve, Raven is nine years old, manifesting as a late Metamorphagus. Sharon Xavier cares even less for Raven than she does for Charles; Raven spends her youth running through Godric's Hollow like a wild thing. Charles knows that Raven loves him, and that he loves her with a fierceness that takes his breath away.

 

One summer, Raven wanders too far, and everything is over.

 

Kurt kills the Muggle boys who did it; not in Raven's name, never, but using her tragedy as an excuse to feed his hate. He goes to Azkaban; Cain retreats into loathing himself and hurting Charles, and Raven -

 

She's not ever the same, after that.

 

Charles knows Raven loves him. Charles knows he still loves her. But - but. If only, he wonders sometimes. If only she was normal, if she was like any other eleven-year-old witch; she could come to Hogwarts with him and he could teach her all he knows; he wouldn't have to spend his school months worrying about her locked up in their drafty cellar with only a daily walk outside to keep her docile. He wouldn't have to see her face, bright with adoration for him, and face the guilt that somewhere deep, he sees her as a burden. Charles knows, above all, that he cannot help her, and _this_ \- this is the worst thing, he thinks.

 

Then Charles befriends a boy named Hank McCoy, and it has not been three weeks into his third year before he realizes that Hank is a werewolf. He swears secrecy, of course, and brings him home to meet Raven. When their eyes light up at each other - when Hank laughs at the blue skin she can't quite manage to hide on her bad days - when Raven sees him through a full moon without a single outburst - Charles feels like finally, he can be enough.

 

The last four years of his Hogwarts career are - not golden, precisely, but _happy_. He racks up O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s and sees a future ahead of him; he can change the world, for Raven, for Hank. He can bring Muggles and wizards together, prevent what happened to his sister from happening to anyone else's. He'll figure it out; he promises himself. An internship at the Ministry couldn't go amiss; maybe Ms. MacTaggert from down the lane will be able to help him.

 

Charles visits her on a sunny June day in the summer after his seventh year. When he knocks on the door, it squawks at him, and then opens to reveal a sour-faced, sharp-boned boy lounging on the couch.

 

"Moira's out," he says, and Charles picks up flashes from his mind - suspicion, surprise, _what a soft little thing, why is he here_ , a deep-seated pain - before the boy seems to realize what Charles is doing and tightens his mental shields.

 

"Do you know when she'll be back?" says Charles, put off in the face of the boy's abrupt casualness. He hasn't even gotten up to welcome Charles in, and his hands are empty; his wandless magic must be well-developed to have opened the door without going for his wand.

 

"Not long," says the boy. His accent is German. "Why do you need her?"

 

"The Ministry - I'd like to work there. I was going to ask for a job."

 

The boy snorts. "The Ministry."

 

"Yes," says Charles, clipped. "I didn't know Moira had another gentleman caller," he adds, noting that the boy, not even wearing robes, seems anything but. "Who might you be, exactly?"

 

Charles' tone must have caught the boy's attention, and he grins with too many teeth, finally standing up. "Erik Lehnsherr," he says, holding out a hand to shake. "I was at Durmstrang."

 

Charles grips his hand to shake. "Charles Xavier. It's nice to meet you."

 

"Yes," says Erik, smile flicking subtly from sharp to hungry. "I think it will be."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been a good summer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have some fluff! I know I said angst but... these two are so cute I couldn't help myself lol

 

It takes less than three weeks for them to bond over rune theory and Charles' old chess set, and they spend their days alternately holed up in the Xavier Library, arguing, or one-upping each other over the board of black and white.

 

"So Durmstrang expelled you?" Charles finally asks, one day.

 

Erik looks up from the chess board. They are sprawled out in the lush grass of the meadow behind Moira's cottage, content to laze in the riot of summer and best each other in turn.

 

"How did you find out?" asks Erik idly. "Legilimency?"

 

"Moira. Erik, I would _never_ ," says Charles, all blue-eyed, flushed earnestness.

 

Erik laughs a little in spite of himself. "I know, Charles," he says, warmly. "Besides, I'm a good enough Occlumens you couldn't find out anyway."

 

"Oh, you think?"

 

"I know," says Erik, voice sparkling with challenge, delighting in Charles' indignant, red pout. "Try me."

 

Charles sits up from where he had been sprawled, body suddenly coiled tight with determination. Shame, Erik thinks. He rather liked Charles looking lazy. It made him - soft. Less uptight.

 

"Durmstrang," murmurs Charles, his fingertips on his temple. Erik blinks back into the present and concentrates, imagines his head encased in a helmet of unforgiving goblin-cast iron.

 

"You - attacked the headmaster?" Charles asks, incredulously.

 

Erik is too shocked to feel the familiar rush of anger that ordinarily overtakes him at any mention of Professor Schmidt. "How did you get through my shields?"

 

Charles smirks, and Erik flicks his eyes up from where they have unwittingly fallen to Charles' lips. "I've been a surface Legilimens since I was eight, Erik," he says, smug. "And a helmet? Really? At the very least it could have been stylish - that thing was ghastly."

 

"Only you would use words like _ghastly_ \- " Erik imitates Charles' posh accent - "in ordinary conversation."

 

Charles grins and sweeps his knight across the board. "Check, my friend." Erik blinks back at the board - he's losing focus. "But really. Why did you attack the headmaster?"

 

This time Erik lets the familiar rush of anger overtake him. "He killed my mother," he says, matter-of-fact.

 

Charles' eyes widen, just slightly. "Oh, Erik," he says. "I'm so sorry."

 

Erik lets out a shuddering breath, trying to smile but knowing it comes out as more of a grimace. "Don't be," says Erik. "She was a great witch. He wouldn't have been able to defeat her at all, if not for - " He cuts himself off, trying to breathe.

 

Charles hand lands on his shoulder, and Erik startles. He hadn't heard him get up. "That's why you're here, then?" asks Charles gently. "To get away from him?"

 

Erik's brow furrows. "You meant it when you said you would never read my mind."

 

"Erik," says Charles, and sits down next to him. Their shoulders touch. "I'll keep saying it until you believe me."

 

Erik's breath shudders in his throat. "I'm here because I want to kill a man who is undefeatable. Charles, have you read Beedle the Bard?"

 

"Who do you take me for?"

 

Erik grins. "Then you've read the Tale of the Three Brothers."

 

"Yes," says Charles, impatient. "But what does this have to do with - "

 

"Schmidt? Those aren't just stories. Schmidt has the Elder Wand."

 

When Erik looks up at Charles, his eyes are gratifyingly shocked. "You're not lying," he says. "I can tell."

 

"I wouldn't lie about something like this," says Erik.

 

"So that's why - that's why - "

 

"My mother couldn't defeat him. No one can. Unless you can master Death itself," says Erik, and waits to see if Charles will catch on.

 

He is not disappointed. "Master of Death," repeats Charles. "The one who possesses all three of the fabled Hallows. You want to - what? Steal the wand, find the other two? Become immortal?"

 

"I don't particularly care for immortality," says Erik. "I just want Schmidt dead. If we have all three Hallows, I won't need to be the true master of the Elder Wand, because Schmidt won't be able to kill me anyway."

 

"I'm not quite sure it works like that," says Charles, but he is a million miles away. "If..." he trails off.

 

"My friend - Charles - I wanted to ask you," says Erik, stilted. "I can't do this alone. And I know you've wanted - to help people. To change the way the Muggles look at us."

 

"You as much as I," says Charles, smiling. "Don't think I haven't noticed how taken you are with Raven." There is something vaguely bitter in his voice; Erik wants it to go away.

 

"Raven is as much of a sister to me as she is to you," he says, carefully, and is relieved when Charles lips quirk up in surprise. "And I do want to help her. The Muggles - my mother was Muggleborn, you know. Her own family cast her out when they found out what she was."

 

"Charles," he starts again. "If we can defeat Schmidt - if we could - "

 

"We will," says Charles, easily, as if he doesn't know that this is the first "we" Erik has had since his mother died.

 

"Then, after, I'd like for you to have them. The Hallows, that is. With that much power, we could - "

 

"Bring them together - Muggles and wizards - of course!" says Charles, eyes lighting up. "Oh, Erik, imagine - "

 

He begins to babble, and the gratitude in his face is enough to make Erik bite his tongue on his own words - _put the Muggles in their place_. Charles was so naïve, he reflected, vaguely. But he would find his way, Erik is sure. Eventually.

 

\-------------------

 

Charles is fairly certain that this is the best summer he's ever had. Hank and Raven are dancing around each other, Cain has discovered a love for goats and so mostly left the two of them alone, and Erik -

 

Well. It comes down to that, really.

 

The best way Charles can describe him is sharp - sharp cheekbones, sharp jawline, a sharp mind, and sharp edges that he kept turned inward, lest he cut anyone around him. He was brilliant at chess and didn't mind Charles' old, mouthy pieces like Cain did; he dreamed wider and wider and Charles felt caught up in his flood.

  
_For the Greater Good_ , they decide, late in July on a night when it's too hot to sleep indoors. They are young and fearless and think they can change the world.

 

And then there's the other thing, Charles notices, one day, when Erik walks around in nothing but a thin white undershirt and denim instead of his usual strict adherence to robes and ties.

 

It's not that - well. It is, a little bit. Maybe a lot, Charles thinks dreamily, as Erik stretches out on their usual grass hill and his undershirt rides up, revealing a sliver of warm skin.

 

"Charles?" says Erik. Charles' attention snaps back to Erik's face - lovely, now he can't stop looking at his _damned_ grinning mouth - and he realizes, slowly, that Erik has said his name more than once.

 

"What?" asks Charles, trying to think of an excuse. He doesn't have one except for _please for the love of God put on a real shirt or a pair of robes or something_ -

 

"Are you all right?" asks Erik, looking like he wants to be concerned but is too sun-drunk to quite manage it. "Charles? You're flushed."

 

"I'm fine," says Charles, congratulating himself on the evenness of his voice. "Just _perfect_."

 

Well. Maybe that was a little -

 

"You don't sound all right," says Erik, slowly, sitting up. "Charles - you know if there's something wrong - "

 

The hesitant, awkward note of concern in Erik's normally too-intense voice softens Charles' peevishness into something almost worse - a soft fondness that heats him up from the inside out and makes him wish for a Cooling Charm and a butterbeer.

 

"It's all right, Erik," says Charles, and then, cowardly - "You should take a nap. You look like you're about to fall asleep."

 

"Good idea," murmurs Erik. Charles sits gingerly next to him and Erik's head is tipping back, easy as anything, into his lap. He is asleep before Charles can push him off, or pull him closer, or kiss him -

 

  
_Well_. Besides that, it's been a good summer. And when Erik and he can put their plan into action - Charles is sure he'll be able to talk Erik out of killing Schmidt, both of them have done enough research to know the mark murder can put on one's soul - they'll be able to unite the Muggles and the humans, once and for all. He thinks, sometimes, that Raven might not approve of that plan - that she might like them to be driven out instead - but she's hard to read on the best of days, anyway, and Charles is her big brother. She'll listen to him. He knows so.

 

\-------------------

 

It is close to midnight during the second week of August when Erik decides that dammit, he has had _enough_.

 

They have broken into Sharon Xavier's stash of firewhiskey and are unreasonably giggly for the maybe-two glasses each of them has had. Charles has spent the day trying Erik's patience by forgoing robes and leaving his tie loosened, then gradually, unknotted around his neck, his shirt untucked and the collar open to reveal the line of his throat. They haven't lit the fireplace - it's much too hot for that - but they did light candles that float around the room at Charles' flushed, drunken instruction. His forearms are bare where he has rolled up his sleeves, his muscles flexing lightly with each swish of his wand; his lips are red with the sting of the firewhiskey.

 

"Erik," says Charles lowly. "I'm drunk."

 

"Yes," says Erik, stupidly, as Charles puts down his wand and fumbles across the floor to lean close, up on his knees and his face _right there_.

 

"I'm drunk," repeats Charles, and Erik can feel each word as he murmurs, "and if you keep staring at me like that, I can't be responsible for anything I do to you."

 

"What?" asks Erik, throat working, mouth dry, braver than he feels. "What do you want - "

 

Charles chokes out a wild half-laugh, and swaying forward, kisses him. When Erik takes too long to summon up the wits to respond, he begins to lean back, forehead crinkling, but Erik chokes out a vaguely threatening noise and lurches forward to kiss him again, and again, and again.

 

Later, Charles will reflect that he should have kissed him sooner. They will have less time than he could ever imagine before everything goes to hell.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there's that :) Next up: angst, for real this time


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles and Erik go trekking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey y'all
> 
> sorry for the break! college apps have been hell tbh
> 
> the tale of the three brothers is taken straight from jk rowling with some minor tweaks for the purposes of this story :)

 

"There were once three brothers who were travelling along a lonely, winding road at twilight. In time, the brothers reached a river, too deep to wade through, and too dangerous to swim across. However, these brothers were learned in the magical arts, and so they simply waved their wands, and made a bridge appear across the treacherous water. They were halfway across it, when they found their path blocked by a hooded figure, and it was Death. He was angry that he had been cheated out of three new victims, for travelers usually drowned in the river. But Death was cunning. He pretended to congratulate the three brothers upon their magic, and said that each had earned a prize for being clever enough to evade him.

 

"So, the oldest brother, who was a combative man, asked for a wand more powerful than any in existence. A wand that must always win battles for its owner. A wand worthy of a wizard who had conquered Death. So, Death had crossed to an Elder Tree on the banks of the river, fashioned a wand from a branch that had hung there, and gave it to the oldest brother.

 

"Then the second brother, who was an arrogant man, and skilled in the art of Legilimency, decided that he wanted to humiliate Death still further, and asked for the power to snuff out any soul with a single thought. So, Death raised his hand and pointed East, to a distant copse of trees along a hillside of scree. 'Here,' said Death, 'The power of your mind will be matched by none but my own."

 

"Finally, Death turned to the third brother. A humble man, he asked for something that would enable him to go forth from that place without being followed by Death. And so it was that Death reluctantly handed over his own Helm of Invisibility.

 

"In due course, the brothers separated, each for his own destination. The first brother travelled for a week or more, and, reaching a distant village, sought out a fellow wizard, with whom he had a quarrel. Naturally with the Elder Wand as his weapon, he could not fail to win the duel that followed. Leaving his enemy dead upon the floor, the oldest brother proceeded to an inn, where he boasted of the powerful wand which he had snatched from Death himself and of how it made him invincible. That very night, another wizard crept upon the oldest brother as he lay wine-sodden upon his bed. The thief took the wand, and, for good measure, slit the oldest brother's throat. And so, Death took the first brother for his own.

 

"Meanwhile, the second brother journeyed to the hillside copse, where he built a lone cabin. Here, he stretched his mind to reach and reach and reach through thoughts across the earth; he left destruction and strife in his wake, and Death fed. But one day, he stretched too far, and looked into the mind of Death itself. Death laughed, for the brother had forgotten: he had not been promised control of Death, only a pale reflection. The brother went mad in the face of Death's dripping smile and turned his bloodlust on his own mind; so, Death took the second brother for his own.

 

"But though Death searched for the third brother for many years, he was never able to find him. It was only when he had attained a great age that the youngest brother finally took off the Helm of Invisibility, and gave it to his son. And then, he greeted Death as an old friend, went with him gladly, and, as equals, they departed this life."

 

  
Charles' voice cracks on the last word, and he leans over, taking a sip of mead from the glass beside his sprawling bed. Raven has put herself to bed - at least, Charles thinks so, her familiar tuneless humming has quieted - and his mother is probably blackout drunk in the master bedroom. Cain is with his goats. Erik -

 

"What an idiot," grouses Erik, predictably, tangled next to him in the sheets.

 

"Who?" asks Charles, idly, though he knows the answer. He feels too boneless to get any work done; he had only pulled up the tome for the umpteenth time to stop his hands from shaking. Erik. Next to him.

 

"The third brother," says Erik, oblivious to Charles' delight. Or maybe not. Charles honestly wouldn't know if he was projecting, just now.

 

"Why?" asks Charles.

 

"He took it off. The Helm."

 

"Mmm," says Charles, distracted by the bruise on Erik's hipbone.

 

"Why would he take it off? Death couldn't find him - even Death's mind couldn't stretch far enough - so why didn't he keep it on? To choose Death, when there's so much more you can do with immortality, it's simply - what are you doing?"

 

Charles grins impishly, and presses down on the mark on Erik's bare skin. "Nothing. Keep going."

 

Erik rolls his eyes, but he's smiling his too-wide smile, and Charles can't even pretend to be offended. "So, you can take Cerebro, obviously,"

 

"Obviously," says Charles, as if they have more to go on than a vague description of what might be any hillside in Scotland.

 

"And the Helm."

 

"Both?"

 

"The Helm can protect you from Death - if it exists like that - and from Schmidt seeing you're watching his mind," says Erik, reasonably. "And then you can freeze him, and I can take the Elder Wand - " he cuts himself off.

 

"And kill him," finishes Charles, quietly.

 

Erik meets his eyes, and says, "Stay out of my head."

 

"I am," replies Charles, automatically. "It's just - I've known for a while now, Erik."

 

"You know I have to."

 

"I understand," says Charles, quietly, but he takes his hand away from Erik's hip.

 

\-------------------

 

"This was a terrible idea," says Charles, flailing over the underbrush and trying to keep up.

 

Erik grins to himself. It wasn't, not with Charles sweaty and flushed and pouting with full lips -

 

Ahem.

 

"You knew when we started this that we'd have to go trudging through forests actually looking for Cerebro, Charles," says Erik reasonably. "It's not my fault you're 108 years old and a practically a Hogwarts professor to boot."

 

"Erik," says Charles seriously. "I can read your mind, remember? I am perfectly aware that we're only here because you know I take my robes off to hike."

 

"So?" asks Erik, arching an eyebrow. He turns around, curving his body towards Charles, and lets his eyes travel unsubtly over his opened button-down, undershirt, and tight hiking pants. Charles smirks at him, canting his hips.

 

"Focus, Erik," he says, taking his hand and pulling him east. "You're getting off track."

 

"And whose fault is that?" says Erik, but he lets himself be led, and tries not to think about Shaw or his mother or bloody revenge. For the first time in months, he is happy, and everything can be simple.

 

They don't find the copse that day, or the next, or the next. Charles delays his internship at the Ministry by another six months, lets Erik take him around and around Scottish and Welsh hillsides, looking for copses with strong magical signatures and cross-running rivers beneath them.

 

The day they find it, they have been following an ancient magical line through moorland for three days. This, in and of itself, means nothing; Scottish moors are inevitably full of magical history, and thus of the spiky aftershocks of some hundred-year-old curse or blessing. The evening sun feels no different than it always does; neither does the copse of trees they stop to search. Everything is extraordinary for its sheer normalcy; Erik is watching Charles laugh and keeping half his mind on the thin thread of magic his wand is tracking when suddenly Charles just - stops.

 

"Charles?"

 

"It's - "

 

"Charles, are you all right?"

 

"It's here. We've found it."

 

Charles doesn't even look at him, watching the small copse of trees - Cerebro - five or six at most, Erik thought it would be bigger - as it flutters gently in the almost-nonexistent moor breeze.

 

"I need to go inside," says Charles, still not looking at him. "To make sure."

 

"It could be dangerous - "

 

"Erik," says Charles, and though his words are teasing, his eyes are blue enough to drown in. "Don't get cold feet on me now."

 

"Right," says Erik, trying not to feel uprooted. "I'll just - " He makes to step forward, but Charles stops him.

 

"Wait out here."

 

"What? No - "

 

"It's dangerous for you, Erik," and he sounds certain enough that Erik painfully swallows back his protests.

 

"All right," he says, and Charles steps forward, and disappears.

 

In his absence, everything seems too loud. The moor wind whistles across the flat plain; Erik can hear the insects chirping and buzzing and they're driving him mad. He takes a deep breath and settles down to wait.

 

\-------------------

 

The inside of Cerebro -

 

Charles stops.

 

He's inside Cerebro. He's _actually inside_ -

 

And Erik's outside, waiting for him. Trusting him.

 

He takes a deep breath.

 

The inside of Cerebro doesn't look like a copse of trees; Charles isn't really surprised by this, considering he grew up in a manor that looks at least four times smaller from the outside. Instead, there are soaring Gothic arches of birchwood and dark walnut, with a perfectly circular, but otherwise unremarkable, stone stool set in the middle. On the stool lie two helmets, side by side. The first is of metal, smooth and dark, with a sharp widow's peak arching down its hairline. The second is similar, but lighter, made of bark that looks flimsy enough for Charles to break with his fingers.

 

This isn't what either of them was expecting. If Cerebro has its own built-in helmet, then Charles won't need the Helm; he can give it to Erik. He approaches the stool, running his fingers around the wooden headdress. Birchbark; Charles knows that this is Cerebro's helmet. It feels, to his magic-heightened fingers, stronger than it looks.

 

The other must be the Helm of invisibility; Charles had suspected since he walked in. The dark metal, its sleek, streamlined design, its rust-red color like dried blood - it doesn't fit here, in the quietly ancient, papery walls of Cerebro. Someone - whoever looked for the Hallows before them - has left it here, a safeguard, a treasure chest for a dead man.

 

And now for them.

 

Charles means to go outside, to tell Erik what he has found, but then he remembers. He can tell Erik from here - he can reach anyone in the world - Raven, Hank, Cain, the Muggles - without leaving this spot. He and Erik could build -

 

He's getting ahead of himself. Giddy, he lifts the birchbark helmet in his fingers, lays the other carefully down on the floor besides him, sits on the stool, and with shaking fingers, lifts it to his head.

 

The universe shimmers into hazy, primal-magic-infused glory before him. He sees Erik, outside - looking farther, he can see the inn where they are staying, and beyond that, Godric's Hollow. And he cannot breathe, overwhelmed - Legilimency lets him see memories, emotions, but now he can hear thoughts - he can hear the busy mutterings of the innkeepers, understand the words to Raven's songs. Hank is making a simple variant on the Forgetfulness Potion - _three owl's feathers might work instead of two, to counteract dizziness and promote balance_ \- there's his mother - _at least the poor brat is happy_ , and he feels a surge of pity and misdirected frustration - Moira, _I need to feed the cat_ and _hope they're not lost up in Scotland_ and _they can take care of themselves_ and he needs to feed his goats and he's left the kettle on and he's lost, lost, _lost_ -

 

  
_Charles_ , says Erik, and the panic draws his mind like a magnet. _Charles, focus_.

 

  
_Erik_ , Charles gasps, and hones into his friend's mind. Cerebro is more powerful than he anticipates; he goes too deep.

 

And he sees everything.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr, taking prompts and crying about everything:  
> bollywood-and-phoenix-feather.tumblr.com


End file.
